I’m not sure what it is about the Grand Canyon that unsettles me more, the park’s indifference to humanity or its stark reflection of my own duality. Like Lieutenant Ives did in 1857, I, too, have heard “harsh screams” while hiking in the canyon. But when I looked up, there were hawks soaring overhead. Any gargoyles I imagined peering down on me from the sandstone ledges were probably the contented ghosts of the Anasazi, revisiting their ancient food caches. And where I had begun to see a chaotic abyss filled with death and violence, young rangers like Cale Shaffer saw the beauty of God’s
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